


A Five-Fingered Duet

by Adenil



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Showers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For such an enormous building, space in the Avenger’s Mansion was surprisingly at a premium.</i>
</p>
<p>Or, Bruce can hear Clint from the shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Five-Fingered Duet

**Author's Note:**

> On the [Tumblr](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/118002416060/so-because-bruvebanner-reblogged-this-with-some)

For such an enormous building, space in the Avenger’s Mansion was surprisingly at a premium.

Tony had originally declared that he was going to build up and everyone was going to get their own floor. But then he’d had the idea for a special gym, then an archery range, plus why not add a parkour room and an Olympic-sized swimming pool? While he was adding floors he needed ten for research and development, plus he decided Bruce needed his own lab as did Hank Pym and Reed Richards for when they visited. After that things sort of spiraled, and pretty soon it seemed like everyone was getting special floors. Floors for food. Floors for drink. Floors for watching movies. Floors for sitting on huge, nest-shaped couches. Floors on top of floors.

Then something--Bruce was pretty green at the time, so he doesn’t remember exactly what--fell on the emerging tower and destroyed about half of the residential floors.

The result seemed predictable enough. Some of them had to share floors. People paired up with little complaining (after all, they were living in a mansion with nearly one-hundred stories for everything that wasn’t sleeping). They did it equitably: by pulling names out of a hat.

Bruce got paired with Clint.

He didn’t mind. He hardly ever saw the other man. Clint was usually out doing SHIELD business or hanging in the parkour gym or watching terrible (absolutely terrible) musicals in the main lounge. Bruce was able to avoid him when he needed to be left alone.

It wasn’t until one blurry Sunday morning as Bruce stepped into the shower to wash off the sweat from his yoga routine that he realized what having a floor-mate really meant. He could hear Clint singing. Loudly. So loudly his voice clearly carried through the walls.

Bruce did some quick calculations in his head and realized what that meant. Clint’s bathroom had to be just on the other side of that wall. It made sense to design the two bathrooms back-to-back, but it immediately made Bruce blush as well because, oh. Clint was showering. Clint was over there being naked and singing to himself while Bruce was over here being naked and silent.

He’d already turned on the shower so there was no going back. He listened to Clint’s rendition of  _If I Were a Rich Man_  as he washed his hair.

*

After that it became almost habit. Clint had apparently gotten in trouble with SHIELD--again--and was spending more downtime at the Mansion and on their floor. Every morning when Bruce stepped into the shower Clint unintentionally serenaded him with a different song. Bruce soon knew all the words to every song from West Side Story and Grease and Into the Woods and a dozen other musicals. They bounced around his head during the day as he found himself staring at the annoying archer, wondering how such a sarcastic man could have such a lovely voice.

*

It was a perfectly innocuous Wednesday after a not-so-innocuous battle that had levelled half the city. Bruce drug himself home (well, actually Thor carried him) feeling grimy and dirty and just generally in need of a good shower. He was exhausted physically, but strangely not sleepy at all, and so he crawled his way into the shower and leaned heavily against the tiled wall and let the eight shower jets pound at his over-sensitized skin.

His eyes were closed for only a minute when he heard Clint’s shower turn on as well.

Bruce didn’t think anything of it. He’d sort of gotten used to pretending to ignore Clint when he sang. He never brought it up, preferring to keep this part of Clint’s life secret. It seemed like something he wasn’t supposed to know about. But this was different. Clint didn’t immediately jump into a song--not even his go-to rendition of  _Summer Lovin’_.

At first, Bruce thought Clint was just as exhausted as he was. Sure, Clint didn’t turn into a ten-foot rage machine, but he still worked. In some ways Clint’s job was harder. He had to watch everyone’s back and call out patterns from the rooftops, not just let himself fade into the background like Bruce did.

But, no. Bruce realized that this was different. Unconsciously, he strained to listen more closely to Clint, his body tense like Clint’s bowstring. Just waiting.

He practically felt Clint gasp.

It wasn’t the hurt kind of gasp. Oh, no, this was something different. Bruce’s eyes snapped open and he stared up at the ceiling as Clint gasped again, little  _ah, ahs_ , exhaling as he…

No way.

Bruce wasn’t going to think about it.

He certainly wasn’t going to picture it.

He definitely was not going to picture Clint’s hands on his body. Wiping away grime and destruction before deciding, hey, and slipping a little lower to--oh, no, he was thinking about it.

Bruce bit his lip hard and slammed his eyes shut again.

But it was way too late. As the scorching hot water pounded at him he could picture it clearly. He could imagine Clint’s broad, calloused hands starting high on his chest before trailing down over his smooth stomach to dance through the hair there. Would Clint have hair? Bruce guessed he would--neat and trim, blond as the hair on his head. He’d dust his fingers through the triangle of hair at his belly button as his cock began to swell.

“Shit,” Clint said, barely a whisper but loud enough to make Bruce jump. Bruce could hear water scattering in a discernable pattern from Clint--Jesus--from Clint moving his arm, then Clint breathed out a low, slow, “Yeah.”

Bruce’s skin was sensitive for a very different reason now.

Clint was really breathing heavy now, little starts and stops, sharp in the inhale, euphoric on the exhale. Bruce felt like his skin was tingling in response and, really, he needed to leave. But, he reasoned to himself, he was still pretty tired and the shower did feel good. Anyway, if he turned off his shower now Clint might notice, and that would be worse than doing nothing at all.

And so he stayed and pictured and decided, just this once, to take what he wanted.

He started at his chest, just as he had pictured Clint do. He’d seen Clint shirtless in snatches, but never allowed himself to really look. He only knew that he was a bit hairier than Clint, a bit less defined. But his skin still responded to his touch, slick under the pelting water.

Bruce listened closely to Clint’s steady breath noises as he touched himself. He ran his palms over his chest, brushing at his nipples and arching up into his own touch. It had been so long since he’d let himself do this. He couldn’t completely remember if he’d always been this sensitive, or if it was something about the situation. Either way it was like a direct line from his peaking nipples to his cock. He touched himself and barely managed to swallow a gasp as his cock jumped in appreciation.

On the other side of the wall, Clint gasped as well.

Bruce thought about freezing, about getting the fuck out of this situation, but he could hear a wet thumping sound--Clint leaning against the wall?--and it spurred him on. He gave in and dropped one hand below his waist, curling his fingers around his cock and trying to match Clint’s rhythm.

“Ah, fuck,” Clint breathed. He sounded so close. He sucked in a breath and held it, and for a second Bruce was disappointed to think it was over, but no. Clint breathed out a sharp, “Mm!” and set a quicker pace.

Bruce matched him.

His imagination soared with the little  _mm mm_  sounds Clint was making. He scattered around, trying to pinpoint what Clint could be doing. Had his slid his other hand up to his mouth, traced his fingers over his bowed lips before dipping inside? Was he trailing his tongue around his fingertips--two at a time--imagining them to be a cock full and thick in his mouth? Did he get off on that, on sucking with his eyes closed, lips stretched as another man’s cock hit the roof of his mouth over and over and over?

Bruce bit his fist to keep down the groan that threatened at that mental image.

“Dammit,” Clint said, and the image shattered. Bruce was almost disappointed, but this was his fantasy to explore and so he did.

He could picture Clint now, mouth open as he panted harshly against the steamy tile. His other hand would reach behind him to finger at his opening, using only water to slick himself just enough to slide one finger inside. He’d fuck himself with that finger. He’d swear because the angle wasn’t quite right; he needed another person, another strong hand to hold his hips down and pull him apart from the inside out. Prepare him with one finger, then two, then three, stretching Clint out until Clint was writhing and begging for it.

Bruce stroked himself as he thought about it, about pinning Clint against the shower wall. Slicking him up as he touched himself. Until Clint was desperate. Until Bruce could just push in, biting at his shoulder as Clint pushed back breathing,

“Yes,” Clint said, “Come-- _yes_.”

It was like he was  _there_  and that wall between them was nothing. Bruce picked up the pace, thrusting up into his own hand, biting hard at his other fist just shy of drawing blood. He struggled not to make a sound as his hips stuttered and his cock pulsed in his own hand because, yes. He need to come.

Lust pooled at the base of his spine, scattering down his arms and into his fingertips. Pleasure building as Clint strangled off a choked gasp of his own and Bruce pictured him coming into his own hand, staring down at the white mess dripping from his fingers as he tried to catch his breath. Looking so sated and relaxed and fuckable.

He couldn’t stop a moan as he came. Bruce bent double, breathing hard as he spilled into his hand.

Bruce was still panting, watching the water wash away all the signs of his activity, when Clint’s shower turned off.

He opened his eyes and looked at the wall separating them. He wondered about Clint drying off, soft terrycloth brushing away the last of the water on his skin. He could hear Clint humming to himself.

Bruce decided that next time Clint sang in the shower, he’d join him for a duet.


End file.
